boats against the current
by that lionhearted vagabond
Summary: ::They don't fall in love all at once. They have to heal first.:: An analysis of an unhealthy relationship that maybe, one day, might be a healthy one::


_three hours A.F._

She found him seated on the wall of the astronomy tower, legs dangled over the edge, looking entirely too _singular_.

She joined him, let the cold wind dry the tears on her cheeks and stared onto the ground below. Someone had turned some music on and there were people dancing through the ruins of what hours ago had not been ruins at all. George startled her, his voice raspy with fresh grief,

"I miss him. I only saw him a few hours ago, but-" Angelina placed her hand over his,

"I miss him too."

They sat on that wall for hours. They didn't jump.

_two months A.F._

They started getting drunk together, every Tuesday at the Hogshead. It was not a mature response, but it dulled the loss so they didn't really give a fuck.

"It's like I have a phantom brother," George told her one Tuesday, already drunk despite it being only three, "I'll have an idea and turn to tell him, so we could do that weird telepathic shit we used to do. I can still feel it, except it's not telepathy anymore. Just me." Angelina nodded slowly, swirling her pint round and round,

"I miss him," George said suddenly.

"I know, I miss him too."

"No you don't, you don't know."

"You can't have a monopoly on missing him you bastard." Angelina stated, downing the rest of her pint. George looked at her with serious eyes,

"Maybe not, but we get the majority."

She'd drink to that.

_three and a half months A.F._

She hung out in his shop after work (a bartender, she had almost been done with basic healer training when she realized broken people weren't qualified to fix things), sitting on counters as he tried to recreate his artistic process with fifty percent less creativity.

"I didn't love him you know," she said one day, watching him bent over a bubbling cauldron. George didn't look up,

"Yes you did."

"It was fun, during school, and during the war, it was nice…not being alone."

"You loved him Angie, maybe you weren't _in_ love with him, but you loved him." Angelina swallowed at that, biting her tongue to keep the tears at bay,

"In sixth year, if…if you had asked me to the dance I would have said yes." George turned away from his cauldron to face her,

"I know," and he did. But they were too late for that now, she could no more look at him without seeing Fred than he could look at her and not be reminded that she was the girl he lost to the brother who was gone.

"I miss him," she whispered.

"I miss him too."

_four months AF_

Angelina stared at her flatmate's face. Her muggle sister's face. Unable to comprehend what it was that was coming out of her mouth.

"You've got to snap out of it Ang, you can't live like this. It's been months."

"Easy for you to say," Angelina said blankly, "You didn't love him." Chrissie sat down beside her on the couch, putting an arm around her shoulder she said gently,

"Neither did you, Ang." Angelina turned to face her, George's words still heavy on her numb mind,

"Of _course_ I did."

She packed while Chrissie was at work, and apparated to his flat (the new one he had bought after taking one look at the space above the shop).

Just like that they moved in together.

_seven months A.F._

The first time they slept together she whispered _Fred_ against his lips. He pretended he was Fred and for a while everything was alright. They didn't mention it the next morning but sex became a thing for them after that.

_nine months A.F._

"I'm pregnant," she said calmly one morning. Angelina wasn't a calm person by nature but when she had found out last night, when George was still in the shop, she had broken a vase, apparated to Chrissie's flat, punched the mirror (they didn't have any in their flat for obvious reasons) repaired it and apparated back before Chrissie could even respond. Now she was too exhausted to get worked up about it. It was a fact of life. Fred was dead. She had slept with George. She was pregnant.

George choked on his rashers, took a large swig of pumpkin juice, swallowed heavily, and replied,

"Alright, we'll get married." They decided to elope, partly because they couldn't bear the thought of having a best man.

Walking into the church, she was reminded oddly of her first quidditch match, mostly in the way she felt like puking.

George, sensing her discomfort, or perhaps calming his own, placed a scarred hand on her flat stomach.

"I feel positively unholy," he whispered in her ear. She smiled, really and truly smiled for the first time in nine months.

They wanted their vows to be _I miss him_, but were told that they weren't valid by an irate priest. They went with the standard ones instead.

_sixteen months A.F._

They had decided not to name him Fred. But they took one look at his red hair and changed their minds.

_He_ would have made a wonderful godfather, so they don't give Fred The Second (and what a horrible name that was, but what else could they have named him?) one. No one else would possible compare.

_seventeen months A.F._

Mrs. Weasley managed to corner them both. George was first. She found him in his old room rocking screaming little Freddie (a much more manageable name).

"George," She said, taking Freddie off him and calming him almost instantly, "would you have, please don't feel offended dear but you can understand why I'm asking, would you have married Angie if it hadn't been for the baby."

George stared at his mother and thought about Fred, the original, about how no one could ever understand quite like he and Angie did what it was like living without him.

"Yes," he answered simply, taking his son back, "I would have." Freddie started to cry.

She asked Angie the same question a week or so later and got much the same answer.

_nineteen months A.F._

They stopped getting drunk on Tuesdays. They didn't have the time. Instead they focused their efforts on not screwing Freddie up.

Angelina found him in the workshop one night, cradling Freddie close and crying.

"I can't do it," he said, "Freddie, and, Fred, and this fucking shop, I can't-"

"Bullshit," Angelina told him, taking their son and kissing his forehead, "I miss him too, but we've made it this far haven't we?"

He put out the first new line of products since the war and she went back to healer training.

_twenty-two months A.F._

"I want a girl," Angelina said. George, staring, as she was, into Freddie's crib, didn't choke this time. Instead he just questioned,

"A girl?"

"Yes, a little girl. To teach how to play quidditch and beat up the boys and-"

"I don't think that's a girl you want."

"Shut up. I mean it."

"Are you sure? My parents wanted a girl and they had to suffer through six boys 'till they got her, and Ginny's no prize."

"Your sister's lovely."

"Sure, you've never pissed her off."

"I'd be pissed off to if I'd had to grow up with a prat like you." George laughed, put an arm around her shoulders and said,

"Alright, we'll have a girl."

_twenty four months A.F._

George asked Angelina to the annual war memorial dance. She said yes.

_thirty-five months A.F._

Angelina stared into the eyes of her daughter for the first time and smiled. She looked exactly like her mother, not like George, not like Fred.

"Roxanne, we'll name her Roxanne." George smiled, holding her in his arms,

"Who's Roxanne?"

"No one, it's just a pretty name." George smiled at his wife, smiled wider than he ever had before.

"I love you." He told her seriously.

"I love you too."


End file.
